The Most Dangerous Game
by Grav
Summary: It's a dangerous game


**AN**: This ficlet was inspired by the comments in **penknife**'s Burying the Hatchet.

**Spoilers**: None.

**Rating**: Teen

**Disclaimer**: Can I borrow them during hiatus at least?

**Character/Pairing**: James/Declan

**Summary**: It's a dangerous game. 

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><p><strong>The Most Dangerous Game<strong>

"Bloody hell," Declan swore. He was tempted to throw the emergency kit back into the useless 4x4, but common sense prevailed. True, the kit had been prepared with one of their non-human operatives in mind, but it wasn't going to be entirely useless.

"What is it?" said James. He was already settled into the back seat. It was so cold out that he couldn't spend too long outside the vehicle or his apparatus would freeze up. When Declan had pointed this out earlier in the day, James had said only that it was unlikely to be an issue.

"We've packed the wrong kit," Declan told him, hurriedly coming round to his side of the car and opening the door. The wind whipped the door out of his grasp and it was all he could do to pull it shut after him once he'd climbed in. "This is Pietro's."

"Thank goodness," said James, and Declan looked at him questioningly. "Pietro requires vast amounts of vodka to stay warm in sub-zero temperatures and he has excellent taste in spirits."

"Pietro doesn't require an emergency blanket," Decland pointed out. "That might have been handy."

"We've one another," James replied, and Declan managed not to roll his eyes.

James was in an uncommonly good mood, given the situation. They'd flown to Finland and rented the 4x4, which they had been assured would be sufficient to get them their destination and back safely, even with the cargo they planned to be carrying on the way back. When the engine light began to flicker just after it got dark, Declan had enough time to sigh before it sputtered and gave out. He'd called for help on the sat-phone, but it was going to be a while. When James suggested they might be more comfortable in the back seat, Declan was hardly inclined to disagree.

And so here they were, camped out in the back seat and waiting for rescue, with only a bottle of vodka and Pietro's emergency supplies to keep them warm. And, as James had pointed out, their own shared body heat. Declan didn't mind that so much.

"What is that game students play nowadays?" James asked, passing Declan a shot glass. "I Have Never?"

"Never Have I Ever," Declan said. "But I really don't think it would be a good idea for me to play with – " he paused. Someone your age. Someone of your experience. "You," he said.

"I see." James was still smiling at him, and Declan was starting to wonder if maybe he was being affected by their cargo in some new and bizarre way, but he had been more exposed than James had, and he felt nothing.

On the other hand, it had been a while since James had gone further than Scotland on a mission, and even that had been a few months ago. Maybe he was just glad to be out and about again.

"Truth or Dare, perhaps?"

It was possible, Declan allowed, that he _had_ been affected by their cargo, and that he was hallucinating the entire thing. "All right then," he said, emptying his shot glass and holding it out so that James could refill it. "You pick first."

"Truth," said James after a moment's hesitation, and emptied his glass. Under other circumstances, Declan might have questioned that. It was clearly his own dare, and it was James's turn, but to be honest he was rubbish at thinking of dares, and even more than that, there were about a hundred questions he'd been wanting to ask James for years now, and this seemed as good an opportunity as any.

_Do you love Helen Magnus? What was his name, the one that broke you? Why didn't you hire Stephen last year when all that you ever said against him was that he'd gone to a school called Winchester?_ and dozens of others, but instead, Declan said the first thing he thought of.

"Are you happy?"

It hung there, between them, so raw against the cold that Declan is immediately sorry he said anything at all. There were any number of things they could have talked about instead, and no reason at all why he needed to humour James's sudden fascination with adolescent drinking games. But he'd said it, and it was too late for that now.

"I don't know."

There were another hundred questions Declan could follow up with, but that isn't how the game works. He knew that James won't think him petty enough to have meant "Do _I_ make you happy?" or even "Are you happy with me?". James will understand that Declan meant now and forever, as eternal as the sun and as measured as the tick that keeps James's heart beating.

"Does that concern you?" James asked, and it was as close to worry as Declan had ever heard in his voice when there wasn't some sort of potentially explosive creature involved.

"No," Declan said, and that was the truth too. He had often thought that James might be the saddest person he'd ever met, except that James also seemed to find reasons to smile, so he wasn't sure.

It doesn't hurt his feelings, exactly, that he can't make James happy. He knew it was a risk when he'd started their whole affair. It just made him so incredibly sad, because James had lived too long to be haunted by that deep sadness he projected, and yet if he didn't, he would hardly be James at all. Declan downed his drink again, and met James's eyes. James's expression was cautiously blank again, returned to normal, and Declan wondered if he had indeed overstepped, game or no.

"It's your turn," James said, and filled their glasses again.

It was cold outside and goodness only knew when help would arrive. But they had each other, and a bottle of vodka, and Declan was almost positive that there was nothing to forgive.

"Dare," he said, just to be sure.

"Come here," James said, and Declan knew that it was well enough for now. 

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><p><strong>finis<strong>

Gravity_Not_Included, May 13, 2011


End file.
